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Our relationship was forged to the soundtrack of Yoko Ono's magic,
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Archive for the ‘ArtCrimes’ Category

Calling All Egos of the Universe

Tuesday, June 29th, 2010

Auguring the Divine


5 bukowski

Thursday, June 18th, 2009

stone fissure, Lake Erie – foto by Smith

18 years ago, I asked poet Ben Gulyas to guest-edit issue #11 of ArtCrimes. Gulyas wrote to Charles Bukowski and asked for some poems. Bukowski sent a batch. Ben felt the poems were less than stellar and wrote back saying they lacked fire, did Bukowski have any others. Never heard from him again.

Here are 5 Bukowski poems we published in 1991. Have no idea if he published these elsewhere or not. I did line searches for each poem and found nothing on Google.

~ ~ ~

somebody else

a hangover at 70
seems somewhat worse,
of course,
than one at
but considering
most other things
I feel about the
my strengths, my
ideals, my

it is only when
I am walking
and I see my
in a
plate glass
that I wonder,
who is

that thing

that old fart.


– Charles Bukowski, 1991, from ArtCrimes #11: Eat at Eternity’s

~ ~ ~


I sat in that bar for so long that
I memorized each grain of wood
along the whole bar, and each
cigarette burn.

the nights and days melded
together, the weeks and the
months, the

two years in that same bar
from opening until closing

I was a fixture, an act.
I drank rivers of booze, lived
through dullness and madness,
accident and song.

I was there without visible
means of support.

then one day I got off my
stool, walked out, and not
only away from the bar
but also the
city and the state.

three years later I
returned, stayed a week,
got off that bar stool
and never

I needed a better place
to hide.

– Charles Bukowski, 1991, from ArtCrimes #11: Eat at Eternity’s

~ ~ ~

upon reading an interview with a bestselling
novelist in the metropolitan daily

he talks as he writes: white fissures of placidity,
and he has a face like a dove, untrampled by externals
or internals.
a little shiver of horror runs through me as I read
his comfortable assured success drones on through
the print.
and least we over-worry he interjects:
“I am going to write a novel next year.”
next year?
I skip some paragraphs, even the interviewer is
but the interview goes on for two and one half
it’s like milk spilled on a tablecloth, it’s talcum
powder, it’s the bones of a dead fish, it’s a crease
in a faded necktie, it’s a gathering hum of nowhere.
this man is very fortunate in that he is not standing
in the line of a soup kitchen.
this man has no idea of his failure because he is
paid so well for it.
I am on the bed, reading.
I drop the paper to the floor.
then I hear a sound.
it is a small fly buzzing.
I watch it flying, circling in its irregular

life at last.

– Charles Bukowski, 1991, from ArtCrimes #11: Eat at Eternity’s

~ ~ ~

change over

Xmas season
here I was a boy and here was my mother and here we
were in a department store
where my mother stopped before a glass case
and I stopped too.
the case was full of toy soldiers, some with rifles
and bayonets, others were mounted on fine horses.
there were toy cannons and there were soldiers with
machine guns.
there was even a castle with a moat, there were toy
airplanes and tanks
and my mother asked, “do you want some of these
soldiers, Henry?”
“no,” I said.
I knew we were poor and I didn’t want her to spend
the money
but I wanted those soldiers in their various colored
uniforms, their different types of helmets and all
their stances: marching, charging, firing.
there were officers and enlisted men, there were
flags, there were raised swords…

“are you sure you don’t want some of these
soldiers, Henry?”

“I don’t want them…”

we walked on, went to another department where my
mother bought me stockings and underwear.
they were to be wrapped in bright packages and
placed under the tree.

that Christmas was hell but when my war finally
came along, as wars will do, and I couldn’t get
past the psychiatrist
I was pleased to learn of my

– Charles Bukowski, 1991, from ArtCrimes #11: Eat at Eternity’s

~ ~ ~


everybody thinks about dying now and then
and the older you get the more you tend to
think about it instead of thinking about
climbing into bed with some bunny you think
about climbing into the grave, oh boy, but
there’s almost a peaceful connotation to
it, sure, especially if you’ve lived a
number of hard years, but, of course, there’s
the inconvenience of it all, not so much to
you but to others–there’s the body, it does-
nt move, you’ve got to do something with it,
it hardens up and stinks up pretty fast, no
offense, I’m not singling anybody out here,
it’s like we all wipe our asses, right? or
most of us do, but before dying some of us
get this itch to do something: plant a gar-
den, lift weights, work with oil paints, buy
a bright yellow convertible sports car or so
forth and so on and ect, like some still
want to go to bed with a bunny, some of the
men and maybe even some of the women, but
actually talking about death gets to be rather
boring, although dying is finally the
only thing that finally gets some people
attention at last, the cochineal types, you
know, but they’ll never realize this auto-
matic herd-like homage because they won’t be
there as they weren’t there in life either,
and in a sense the living only honor the dead
because they will be next, it’s cheap really,
a kind of connecting chain of self-agony, and
my wife asks me, “would you rather be ashes or
buried?” and I say buried because even though
I won’t know it, I could know it ahead of time,
thinking about it now: somebody drinking me
down with their beer or sticking me up their
asses or their pussies or mixing me with the
dog food, I am caught with this sick vanity:
I like myself living or dead, I am the best
thing I have ever met, so bury me sweet and
deep and don’t weep, realize that one of the
nicest things is leaving you, your cities, your
songs, your mewking laughter, your history, your
hell, your chess sets, your jams and your jellies,
your bunnies, your buttocks, the way you’ve
smeared the sun and pissed in your ears, I still
liked some of you, which beats the other, so
drop the lid–the darkness is yours and as
your feet hit the floor each morning, I wish
you luck.

– Charles Bukowski, 1991, from ArtCrimes #11: Eat at Eternity’s

down the line – foto by Smith


lady crimes 2

Thursday, May 7th, 2009

white film noir – foto by Smith

~ ~ ~

I’m a lung
and a throat
on a seat
on the road
and there’s sun
and there’s wind
and the road
has no sound

– Kathy Ireland Smith, from ArtCrimes 21, page 3

~ ~ ~

Perfume Counter Pussy

Prowl pussy!
big hair
perfect Tits
high in air

basic Black
pout lips
cheek boots
curve hips

spray marks
passers by
pheromone scent
mascara eye

grip dog
tight jeans
on leash
back alleys Scream

– Kathy Ireland Smith, from ArtCrimes 21, page 31

~ ~ ~

ArtCrimes was a limited edition art/poetry journal I published from 1986 through 2006: 21 years, 21 issues, $20,000 lost. The perfect art project. Published 517 people and a dog. No one was ever rejected, neither for talent nor subject matter. Lady and I published the final issue in 2006 one month before we left the country.

twilight Lady – foto by Smith


the smiths’ online year in review

Thursday, January 1st, 2009

cyber footprints – foto by smith

**WARNING – this is a blog brag**

Lady and I have three websites, and they had 2,023,049 pages viewed this year, for which we received not a penny.

Our–a daily blog of our travels and relationship adventures since mid-2006–in 2008 had 944,965 pages viewed, a 167% increase from 2007.

Lady’s–a zine of other’s art and poetry since 2002–had 97,593 pages viewed throughout 2008, a 20% increase over 2007.

AgentOfChaos–an edgy art/poetry website established in 2002–had 980,491 pages viewed this year, a 23% drop from 2 years ago. may be the largest art/poetry site on the web with over 3,500 pages and 5,500 fotos. It is 70% my own art-reviews-publications-poetry, 15% Lady’s art&poetry, and 15% guest poets, guest artists, ArtCrimes contributors and friends.

Our two Myspace pages are basically throw-away with around 75 daily viewers each. We keep them going because MySpace produces the best comment count of all the sites. On WalkingThinIce we’re lucky to get 1 comment a day, on AgentOfChaos I do good to get one comment a month, while on MySpace my 75 readers leave 6 to 10 comments every day.

Wow, over 2 million pages served this year alone. Move over McWordless.

blue haze – foto by smith


double oh zero enigmatic man

Thursday, February 21st, 2008

small wall graffiti – foto by smith

if i could choose super-powers, i’d be Enigmatic Man. i’d roam the world casting uncertainty in the hearts of the dead-certain, causing them to pause before condeming those not of their dim-crowd. my test-flock for this hesitation hop would be most the world’s politicians and religious leaders, and all its C.E.O.s.

when i’m not enigmatic man, i’m Double-Oh-Zero – and i’ve a license to lie. i don’t wear a costume in any of my identities, so folk never know if they’re dealing with Enigmatic Man or Double-Oh-Zero, whether i’m lying or merely being enigmatic.

ocassionally i delve into my spiritual side and become O Absurd One. i sit at my feet and lick my own navel. wherever Me, Myself and I gather in My Own Name, there will be Much Us-ness.

i’ve other identities of course. one is He Who Cannot Walk Across A Room Without Breaking Things. that is my default mode. i’m often not invited back after initial visits.

my core being of course is Chameleon Man. i stand in blank-ness, vague, slightly helpful, allowing you to hang whatever mask upon my face that suits your needs. i am none of what is myself, instead am all of you.

my lady love calls me Beast of Leaf.

if i had my druthers, i’d be a pure energy being, sans this cursed limit called flesh. i’d be E-Me, able to assume any shape, go any where in a whizz. i even have instruction manuals for this sort of thing – the first 10 issues of E-Man (Joe Staton, Charlton Comics, 1973).

and then there’s my secret name, from this poem for Lady K


They call me bone
in secret name
no one knows is secret

Covered heart alone
carries weight

Meat is meat
if no magic
magic no magic no meat

Uncovered heart atones
recent track
marries meat to bone

large wall graffiti – foto by smith


ArtCrimes 21 readings and pickup

Saturday, July 1st, 2006

We have changed a couple of dates on this list: 

here’s the final line-up for both
the ArtCrimes 21 readings
the NON AC21 readings

free copies for contributors
and copies for sale will be available
at ALL these venues.

1 . . . . . . . NOT an AC21 reading
Friday July 7 – 8:30 p.m.
DeepCleveland Borders Bookstore
featuring Jeff Kosiba
17200 Royalton Rd.
Strongsville, Ohio 44136
open mic follows

2 . . . . . NOT an AC21 reading
Saturday July 8 – 3-5 p.m
Brandt Gallery
open reading
1028 Kenilworth
Cleveland, Ohio

3 . . . . . . . NOT an AC21 reading
Thursday July 13 – 10 p.m.
The Literary Cafe monthly reading
featuring RA Washington & Jen Sincero
1031 Literary Rd
Cleveland, Ohio
open mic follows

4 . . . NOT an AC21 reading
Saturday July 15 from 3-5
The Bookstore On West 25th Street
open reading
1921 West 25th St Cleveland, Ohio

5 – ArtCrimes 21 reading
Saturday, July 15 – 8:00 p.m.
@ C-Space – 4323 Clark Avenue
Cleveland, Ohio

6 – ArtCrimes 21 reading
Saturday July 22 – noon to 2 p.m.
@ Gallery 324 – the Galleria
East 9th & St Clair Cleveland, Ohio

7 . . . . . . . NOT an AC21 reading
Friday July 21 – 8 p.m.
North Water Street Gallery
open mic
257 North Water Street Kent Ohio

8 – ArtCrimes 21 reading
Saturday July 29 – 3-5 p.m.
SPACES Gallery
2220 Superior Viaduct
Cleveland OH 44113

contributors get 1 free copy
book is 144 page 172 artists

book sells for $15

books available at
Macs Backs Books
Bookstore on West 25th Street
SPACES Gallery
Loganberry Books

Special price from the Smiths
for the next 3 weeks only:
1 copy for $15
2 copies for $25
3 or more copies for $10 each
(plus postage if applicable)

Bookstore and Gallery copies are $15 each

agent for ArtCrimes past and present after we leave the country is Mark
Kuhar of Deep Cleveland Press


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Designed by Lady K